


You Push, I'll Pull

by rizcriz



Series: tumblr is dying time to get compiling [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: In which Quentin actually helps Eliot after the whole Mike debacle.





	You Push, I'll Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Compiling all my drabbles from tumblr to ao3!

Alright, here we go.

Margo comes to him one night, terrified and not at all herself. She doesn’t even say anything, completely ignores Alice, who is sitting with him. She just grabs his arm by the wrist, and drags him up the stairs and to Eliot’s room. He looks at her, confused, as she stares at the closed door. “Talk to him,” She whispers, “I can’t get through.” 

“But you’re his best friend.” 

She gives him a face, “We both know he and I don’t talk, you can stop pretending you think we do. He’ll talk to you. He won’t talk to me. Not about this.” 

“What is it?”

She frowns. “Do you seriously not know?” 

“Know what? Please stop being vague.” 

She sighs, running a hand messily through her hair. “He killed Mike.” 

He doesn’t wait for her to say anything else before he turns around and pushes open Eliot’s bedroom door. “El?” He asks, soft, as he moves into the room and closes the door behind him. 

Eliot’s sitting on the floor by his bed, knees pushed up against his chest, with two empty bottles of whiskey lying on the ground beside him. He barely turns hi head to acknowledge Quentin, but he holds up the half full bottle in his hand. “Come to join me?” He asks, but his voice is hollow, hoarse, and lacking the usual bite that comes with nearly everything he says.

Quentin shakes his head, moving until he’s sitting across from him, back up against the wall, with the window sill digging into the nap of his neck. “I heard what happened.” 

Eliot shrugs one shoulder, taking a big swig of the whiskey. “Not a big deal,” he says, but he’s looking everyere except at Quentin, which is unbearably unlike him. 

“That’s not true,” Quentin says, scooting closer to him, one hand reaching out and grabbing at Eliot’s ankle, looping his fingers around it. “Remember? I know it’s not the first time you’ve killed someone,” Eliot flinches, lifting the bottle to his lips again, and Quentin brushes his thumb over the front of his ankle. “I know you’re hurting, El. You can talk to me about this.” 

Eliot swallowed the whiskey and leveled him with a glare. “What if I don’t want to talk? Can’t I just sit here in peace without you trying to fucking force some weak, pathetic Quentin-esque feelings on me?” He sneers, fist tightening around the bottle of the whiskey so tight his knuckles are turning white. “Not everyones as broken as you Quentin. The sooner you realize that, the better all of us will feel. You’re not as entertaining to keep around when you’re this pathetic.” 

The comment hurt, but Quentin brushed it off, because Eliot’s all bite and no bark, and right now, Eliot was going to say anything to get people to leave him alone - to keep from having to talk about his feelings.

Quentin wasn’t going to let him push him away, though.

“You don’t mean that,” He murmurs, scooting ever closer, “And even if you do, I don’t care.” 

Something flashes behind Eliot’s eyes, but he lifts the bottle to his lips again. Quentin reaches forward and stops him before he can pour any into his mouth, carefully unravels Eliot’s fingers from around the bottle and sets it just out of his reach. “You’re not okay,” Quentin says, getting up on his knees and pulling him up against his chest. 

He resists for a moment, before his breath hitches and his arms wind around Quentin’s back. His hands laces together at the base of Quentin’s back, and his face presses flush up against his chest. He breathes in, out, in, out for a few long moments, until the breaths start coming quicker, and Quentin can feel something wet seeping through his shirt.

He places one hand at the nape of Eliot’s neck and runs the other through his hair. “Shh,” He whispers, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of his, “You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay, Eliot. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Eliot doesn’t say anything, just tightens his grip around him.

They sit there until Eliot cries himself to sleep. 


End file.
